


tomorrow they'll see what we are

by kindclaws



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellarke Secret Santa, F/M, Roan guest stars as the jaws theme song, Season 3 Angst, Temporary Amnesia, enemies to friends to temporary-amnesia-enemies to friends to lovers, pls suspend disbelief for concussion symptoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: “I will stab you with a fork,” Bellamy threatens, twisting in the warrior’s grip. The warrior grunts as Bellamy lands a kick backwards at his knee. In response he twists Bellamy’s arm behind his back and forces him to his knees. Clarke must make some sound in response to Bellamy’s groan of pain, because his head snaps up instantly, and through the haze of pain in his eyes he sees enough. She shakes her head minutely.Don’t say it,she thinks.I’ll come up with something, I just need a second to think -“Clarke?”Bellamy asks, his voice filled with surprise and disgust. She barely has the chance to flinch - it’s just, she hoped if they ever saw each other again he’d be happy, or at least relieved.( amnesia au for @the-poodles-of-pulitzer! )
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 30
Kudos: 283





	tomorrow they'll see what we are

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** a little bit of canon-typical violence, description of injury, and deeply inaccurate field medicine and concussion symptoms. There is a happy ending!
> 
> For Bellarke Secret Santa 2019, @the-poodles-of-pulitzer requested: a canonverse amnesia fic where one forgets the other back until the dropship days when they hated each other. I am all about that dropship days dynamic, so this was a lot of fun to write and I hope you consider it a worthy holiday present! Happy holidays everyone, 'tis the season to cry about these angst-ridden fools.
> 
> (Seriously, I cannot emphasize just how inaccurate like, all of the amnesia stuff is.)
> 
>  **PERMISSIONS:** Please do not download and save this fic locally. I make frequent revisions and don't like the idea of old versions being out there, and if I ever decide I hate it, I'll orphan it rather than delete it so you'll still be able to find and read it! I'm open to translations and podfics, but please contact me on tumblr first. Do not upload to other sites. Do not claim as your own.

Niylah’s trading post is a luxury Clarke rarely allows herself to appreciate. More often than not she stops by only long enough to deliver her latest kill and pick up enough rations to make it to the next delivery. Niylah’s father is one of the reasons she doesn’t linger - the more curious eyes see her face, the less safe she feels hanging around the area - but when she’s really in the trading post, he feels like an excuse.

The muffled clang of metal and glass reaches Clarke as Niylah digs around in one of the back rooms. She browses the nearest shelves idly, feeling the worn velvet of an ancient plush toy through the hole in her glove as the warmth of the nearest lanterns slowly seeps into her frostbitten feet and hands. She gives the set of throwing knives next to the toy more attention. They need sharpening, and she needs instruction before she could be even remotely threatening with them, but still the fantasy tempts her. _Ready to be a badass, Clarke?_ a ghost over her shoulder asks, and she waves her hand through the empty air like it’s enough to dissipate the memories.

The truth is, she doesn’t let herself stay long at Niylah’s trading post because it’s too comfortable. She wants the warmth, and the stories behind every eccentric item on the shelves, and a place to sleep that has four walls and a ceiling, and the smell she still hasn’t been able to identify - something musky, like stale air but homier. But she can’t stay because she doesn’t deserve this. Monsters don’t deserve this. 

Niylah comes out with a basket in both hands piled high with glass jars and wrapped preserves, and Clarke straightens up. 

“What’s that?” she asks in a voice low and hoarse from disuse as Niylah sets a tin cup on the counter. 

“A drink,” Niylah says. Her face is as even as always but there is something there. A challenge. Clarke stares hard at the tin cup, thinking to herself that alcohol is an unnecessary risk - she’ll need her wits about her out in the forest. She feels shame when she realizes she’s tempted, then wonders if it’s worse if she leaves a trail of rejected drinks behind her. The saddest scattering of breadcrumbs ever. Clarke opens her mouth and just then, the front door bangs open.

She turns away on instinct, her matted hair slipping over her shoulder to hide her face. She expects Niylah’s father - it was only a matter of time until she ran into him - but what comes in is worse. She watches the three figures through the tangles of her hair. The bigger two are definitely warriors. Formidable ones, tall and broad even if she subtracts away the bulk of the tattered furs they wear. The one with long hair steps up to Niylah’s counter, slams something down. The second one struggles with the third figure - smaller, younger, and swearing up a storm in a voice that turns Clarke’s blood to ice. She inches forward, trying to get a better look at the prisoner. That’s an Ark jacket. And his hair - longer than she’s seen it yet, and matted with dried blood near one of the temples, but she knows that hair, like she knows that voice, like she knows the pure rage behind it. 

_Bellamy_ , Clarke mouths. She’s lucky her fear has stolen away all the air in her lungs. Lucky she doesn’t give herself away instantly.

“I will stab you with a fork if I have to,” he threatens, twisting this way and that in the warrior’s grip. The warrior grunts as Bellamy lands a kick backwards at his knee. In response he twists Bellamy’s arm behind his back and forces him to his knees before bringing his elbow down between Bellamy’s shoulderblades. Clarke must make some sound in response to Bellamy’s groan of pain, because his head snaps up instantly, and through the haze of pain in his eyes he sees enough. She shakes her head minutely. 

_Don’t say it,_ she thinks. _I’ll come up with something, I just need a second to think -_

“ _Clarke?”_ Bellamy asks, his voice filled with surprise and disgust. She barely has the chance to flinch - it’s just, she hoped if they ever saw each other again he’d be happy, or at least relieved. She thought maybe they became friends, between one crisis and the next, the first touch of death and the last - but the man at the counter looks far too interested. There’s no time to dwell on the lump in her throat, the sharp sting of unexpected hurt from Bellamy’s tone. 

“Wanheda?” the man with long hair says. His eyes flicker from her face to the scrap of paper he has in his hand, and his lips curve into a predatory smile. “It can’t be this easy.”

“It’s not,” Bellamy says with a dark laugh. “Princess doesn’t co-operate with _anyone_.”

“Do _not_ start a fight in my house!” Niylah says loudly, and Clarke takes a moment to apologize in her head. The man with long hair starts forward and Clarke grabs the biggest knife from the set she was admiring earlier. She puts all her strength behind that throw and it sails harmlessly past the man with the long hair and sinks into the dirt behind him. The man stops in his tracks and tilts his head. He looks nearly as disgusted with her as Bellamy sounded. 

“That was awful,” he says. 

“Wasn’t aiming for you,” Clarke answers breathlessly, and behind him, Bellamy scoops up the knife and slashes the thigh of his captor. He doesn’t have a lot of control with it, not with his hands bound together at the wrist, but the element of surprise is enough to buckle the warrior’s legs. His howl of outrage is cut off as Bellamy sinks the knife into the side of his neck. 

He’s still gurgling when the man with long hair leaps for Clarke. Niylah’s shouts are lost under the thundering beat of Clarke’s heartbeat in her ears. She grabs the top of the nearest shelf and her weight makes the old wood creak. She darts away as it begins to tip and looks only long enough to make sure the man with long hair is caught underneath. 

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke pants to Niylah as she runs past, and then she is heaving Bellamy to his feet and they are running out into the cold and dark. Her side begins to ache just after they make it into the underbrush and still she forces them forward, even as Bellamy stumbles and sways against her. Only after a few minutes does she find a small hollow - not quite a cave, but an outcropping of rock that juts out enough that they’re partially sheltered - and let him sink to his knees. 

He’s still got the knife, thank goodness. She’ll have to pay Niylah back for it somehow, though she doesn’t know how long it will take before it’s safe to return to her outpost, and _fuck_ , Clarke left her supplies behind, they’ve got no food, and no chance of risking a fire - 

Bellamy stares at her face as she saws through the rope binding his wrists together. 

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” he asks, and she self-consciously touches the sticky dye job. 

“Berries,” she mumbles. “I thought they wouldn’t be looking for a red-head.” 

“Who wouldn’t be looking?”

“Bounty hunters, like your friends,” Clarke says. The last stands of rope finally fray apart and Bellamy shakes his bindings off, flexing his hands and rubbing at his forearms gingerly. “Are you hurt elsewhere? Your back?”

“Aches, but it’ll be fine,” he says gruffly. “More worried about my head. Hurts like crazy.”

Clarke carefully pushes his curls away from his face to look at the cut on his temple. There’s dried blood all the way down the side of his face, in his eyebrow and even flaking off the shell of his ear, but as far as Clarke can tell it doesn’t look too deep. He frowns when she tells him so and it pulls at the edges of the scab. 

“No, the back of my head,” he says, and when she tilts his head forward he muffles a groan of pain. She finds more dried blood at the back of his head, and a swollen area that makes him hiss even when she brushes her fingers against it lightly. 

“What happened?” Clarke asks, feeling sick with worry. Bellamy goes very still. 

“I’m… I’m not sure,” he says, and the distant terror in his eyes makes Clarke leave the subject alone. With the last of the light she washes away as much of the blood on his face as she can with clean snow, though she leaves the scab because it’s clearly doing well enough on its own. She’s not sure what to do about the back of his head, and there’s not enough light for her to see it. 

Bellamy’s eyelids are falling shut by then, despite his best efforts to stay awake and snark at her, so Clarke leans back against the cold rock and pulls his head into her lap. He reaches up with fumbling fingers and squeezes the hand she’s laid protectively on his shoulder. 

“Thanks, princess,” he mumbles. “I guess you’re not all bad.”

He’s asleep before she can think of a response to that. She stays awake until dawn, shivering, checking Bellamy’s sluggish pulse, and waiting for the crunch of snow on the rock over their heads. It doesn’t come. The sky turns rosy pink, like her skin in the cold, and they’re still safe, still free. But it’s only a matter of time before that bounty hunter comes looking. She nudges Bellamy awake and he sits up with a groan. She hears his stomach gurgle with hunger and wishes she hadn’t stupidly left her rations at Niylah’s. 

“I’m sorry there’s no food,” she says. “I’ll try to find something.”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy says roughly, brushing her off when she tries to help him to his feet. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to go hungry. Not that you’d know anything about that, growing up on Alpha.”

Clarke flinches away, and the quiet fury in Bellamy’s eyes wavers. He opens his mouth and Clarke turns away. 

“This isn’t the Ark, anymore,” she says, tears springing up, and in the corner of her eye she sees Bellamy wrap his arms around himself. 

“I guess not.”

When Clarke’s sleep is fitful and she dreams, just before waking, she doesn’t dream about the Ark as much as she used to. No. Her happiest dreams are the ones from the very first days on the ground, when the forest was warm and vividly green. In her dreams, the boy beside her wasn’t as sharp as he is now, and she wonders how much of that her lonely mind made up. Maybe they were never friends at all, and she only constructed a version of him to keep her company. Because this… this isn’t the boy who knew what she was thinking almost before she knew it herself, who fell into step beside her, who leapt in front of a sword to shield her. 

Who put his hand on hers so she wouldn’t have to pull the lever alone. 

“We should get moving,” Clarke says. Bellamy limps at her side.

“I don’t know the way to the dropship from here,” he says grudgingly, and Clarke stops in her tracks. 

“Don’t you mean Camp Jaha?” she asks in confusion, and Bellamy scoffs. 

“Camp _Jaha?”_ he asks derisively. “What idiot would name it after him?”

“…I think it was Kane,” Clarke says, and when Bellamy looks completely lost, she starts to feel the heavy weight of dread settling on her. “Bellamy, what’s the last thing you remember?”

The scab at his temple stretches as his forehead furrows. 

“I…” he says. “Murphy came back. Everyone got sick, including you. Then…” he touches his neck, lost in thought, and Clarke struggles not to let her reaction show on her face. 

He doesn’t remember? He doesn’t remember leading the dropship’s defence, losing delinquents in the foxholes, doesn’t remember her closing the door on him and leaving him to die in the fires. Doesn’t remember the rest of the Ark coming down, and the Mountain men, and Finn’s death, and Clarke sending him to infiltrate the mountain and letting a bomb drop on his little sister and - _the lever._

The one person on the planet who understands what freedom cost, what they agreed to bear together - and he doesn’t remember it. 

“Clarke?” Bellamy asks, hesitant, and looking so vulnerable as he reaches out, his fingertips brushing her tattered coat. 

“We’re wasting time,” she says brusquely, and starts marching forward. She’s not sure how long she’s been out here alone, but the snow tells her it’s been weeks. Months? If he’s lost that much of his memory, the blow he took to the back of his head is way out of her depth. She needs to take him home, to Abby, to a real doctor, even if every step closer to the gates she walked away from feels like the cut of a knife. 

“Clarke, what’s wrong?” Bellamy asks, catching up to her and holding his head with a wince. She turns away so he can’t see the tear slipping down her other cheek. 

“Nothing. Let’s just go home.”

She’s killed hundreds of people, but telling him the truth feels like the cruelest thing of all. Dante told her to bear it so no one else would have to, and she can’t put this burden back on Bellamy, can she? _You don’t want to tell him because you’re selfish_ , a nasty voice at the back of her mind whispers. _Because you don’t want him to think you’re a monster, too._ Clarke wants to fight back and say that’s not true, but - she’s not sure how or when or why Bellamy started trusting her the first time around, and it’s too much to hope it’ll happen again. He hates her again. He only remembers the princess he thought she was, and that’s not even the worst version of her.

“Clarke - “

“Please, Bellamy,” Clarke says tiredly. “Just let me take you home.”

He falls silent, and even with the uneven crunch of his footsteps beside her, she feels more alone than she ever has since she walked away from Camp Jaha.

If the loss of entire months of his memory weren’t warning enough, Bellamy stumbles on uneven terrain, and asks her where the dropship is at least once every hour, and needs to stop and rest even more often. Clarke is torn between treating him as she would a patient and letting him rest, and pushing him onward, away from the bounty hunter that might still be tracking them. 

She finds long, spiraling icicles and breaks them off into her flask. The cold air that brushes against her bare skin when she unzips her jacket and pulls her shirt up makes her hiss, but it’s even worse when she presses the flask’s cold metal side against her ribs to warm it up. When the ice has melted into a few sips of water for each of them, she forces Bellamy to drink his share. He doesn’t say thank you, and stares listlessly ahead until she nudges him to start moving again. Clarke almost misses the vitriol. It hurt to be reminded that the things they survived together - the things they _did_ together exist only in her memory now, but it’s worse when he gets quiet.

Clarke finds a snare sometime after midday - not hers, and she’s not sure just whose territory they’re on here, but she unties the hare with shaking fingers and risks a fire because Bellamy is only getting more sluggish, and exhaustion is starting to look like a more dangerous killer than the man in the trading post. This time, when she lifts her shirt up to warm up another flask-full of ice, Bellamy takes it and puts it down his collar. 

“My turn,” he says quietly, when she stares at him, and she should protest - but it’s almost like he’s her Bellamy again, even if the load they’re sharing now is just the nuisance of some cold metal. So Clarke just swallows down the lump in her throat and starts skinning the hare. Bellamy leans back against the sides of the hollow they’re hiding in and watches her work with half-lidded eyes. Clarke’s still not very good at this - there’s a reason she’s willing to give Niylah and her father a portion of her kills for doing the work of skinning and salting her meat - but she grits her teeth and carves off enough meat to skewer over the fire. 

The next time she looks over, his eyes are closed, his head lolling on one shoulder, and the sight brings pinpricks of bitter tears to her eyes. She looks down, blinking away the sheen of tears before her blurred vision leads to cutting herself, and finishes picking at the carcass. An ache builds up in her jaw as she clenches it to keep from making any sound that would wake Bellamy. The grief lingers far past its welcome. She wonders how it is that she misses him so much when he’s right there, so close she could shuffle over and touch him.

“It was barely fall when we landed,” Bellamy says suddenly, and Clarke startles. She knocks one of the meat skewers into the fire and spends the next few seconds salvaging it and trying to blow off some of the ash clinging to the seared surface as her mind races. “Now there’s snow. Your hair is red. There’s bounty hunters looking for you. You skinned that rabbit like you knew what you were doing. And…”

Clarke sets the skewer back over the fire and holds Bellamy’s gaze evenly. The urge to cry is gone, replaced by something adjacent. The urge to run, maybe. She’s both furious and relieved he’s so smart. 

“And?” she asks. 

“And you look at me like I’ve betrayed you,” Bellamy finishes, and Clarke flinches. He’s got it backwards. “How hard did I hit my head, Clarke? How much time have I forgotten?”

“I’m not sure,” she says with a long sigh. “Weeks. Months.”

“Where’s my sister?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke says, with growing unease. “She was fine last time I saw her. Knew how to use a sword.”

The confusion that flashes over Bellamy’s face reminds Clarke that he’ll have to come to terms with Lincoln again. It almost makes her smile. 

“When was the last time you saw her?” he presses. 

“I don’t know,” she says again, her voice small. “Months.”

“She left?” 

“No. I did.” The wood he’s leaned against doesn’t leave him room to reel back, but there are other signs. His eyes go wide, his nostrils flaring, and he tilts his head back like he’s exposing his throat to her. The hurt doesn’t make sense if he doesn’t remember what they did together - unless. “Didn’t realize you’d miss me,” Clarke says, but it doesn’t come out like a joke. 

Bellamy stares her down. 

“I wouldn’t,” he says, but it has the hesitation of a lie. 

Clarke hands him one of the cooked skewers without looking at him. 

“What happened, princess?” he asks. She closes her eyes against the onslaught of memories. “Why are you out here?”

“Don’t ask me again,” she says, and does not look at him the rest of the night. 

She’s not sure what wakes her that night. The man with the long hair does not make any sound. She doesn’t hear the crunch of footsteps on snow, or the metallic _snick_ as he removes his sword from his sheathe. Clarke opens her eyes with a vague sensation of frustration as her dream slips out of reach, and when she blinks she sees the silhouette standing over Bellamy’s still body. A black form against a starlit sky. 

“I don’t want any fuss,” the man says, which seems absurd when the tip of his sword is hovering near Bellamy’s neck. Something in his posture, or his voice, or the way he hasn’t killed Bellamy yet tells Clarke there’s time to negotiate. 

“If you let me take him home, I’ll come with you,” she whispers. “I won’t make any trouble.”

The man with long hair has a gravely laugh. By the moonlight she sees his eyes narrow as he assesses her. 

“Let you go home so you can call the rest of the Arkadian guard on me?” he says, and Clarke is already desperately shaking her head. “No thank you.”

“No, I won’t, I promise,” she says. “I won’t do that. Please, he doesn’t know the way home. Just give me this and I’ll never ask for anything else.”

“No pleas for your own freedom?” the man asks. “You’re not even going to ask if you’re wanted dead or alive?”

“I’m already halfway,” Clarke says hollowly. The man’s eyes are beetle-black in the darkness, just the moon to glint off of them. He thinks about it for a while, as Clarke’s mind desperately scrambles for something else to say, some other strategy. Eventually he lowers his sword, and with every centimeter put between the tip of the blade and the slow pulse in Bellamy’s throat, Clarke breathes easier. 

“I hear you’re a creature of honour, Wanheda,” the man says, like a threat, and with that he walks away. Still, her pulse doesn’t slow. After a moment she sits up and crawls closer to Bellamy, and she shakes with soundless sobs for what feels like hours. 

In the morning, Bellamy’s eyes are confused and distant. He lets Clarke check his injuries without snapping at her. The silence as they walk is almost gentle, and Clarke feels wistful as they draw closer to the dropship’s wreck. Just a few more hours to Camp Jaha, now.

But Bellamy trails to a stop when they reach the fallen tree - the one knocked over by a storm, its roots half-exposed and shrouded in snow, the one that has kept growing along the ground anyway, all its branches angling to the cold sun. Clarke hurries to his side, thinking maybe he's been struck with another wave of dizziness, but his eyes are clear and bright as he brushes snow off the bark.

"I know this," he murmurs, and then he's tearing frantically through the underbrush, picking up a trail that went cold months ago with no delinquents to walk it. 

"Bellamy!" Clarke cries as she chases after him. She worries about being heard for a moment before remembering the bounty hunter that is probably quietly tracking them. He won't let anyone or anything else endanger his prize. "Bellamy, wait!"

She bats away branches that catch at her like grasping, skeletal hands, and then the forest parts and Bellamy is on his knees in the center of the clearing. The sight of the dropship makes all the breath leave Clarke's lungs. The first one she manages to suck in after she forces down the guilt feels extra cold. She thought it might be comforting to see their old home again, at least a little bit, but she can still see the scorch marks on the dropship's walls and the silence reigning over the clearing is just a stark reminder of the laughter and conversation that used to ring out over their camp.

At the center of the clearing, Bellamy brushes gray snow off of the dome of a skull and holds it up to her.

"Clarke?" he chokes out.

"It's not ours," she says quietly. _Probably_. His eyes are wild and angry, but it's the sort of anger she saw in the eyes of that panther she took down. The anger of a creature that doesn't want to be afraid. 

"Where are they?" he demands. 

"Camp Jaha," Clarke says. 

"How many?"

She flinches. 

"As many as we could save," she mutters, and hangs her head in shame. Bellamy rubs his thumb over the skull's temple and snow and ash streak together. Clarke can't believe the evidence of their destruction is still there, under the snow.

"I dreamt about fire," Bellamy whispers. "Did we..."

"Yeah," Clarke says, feeling the familiar guilt lodge in her throat. She waits to see if he says more. If he remembers she closed the door with him on the wrong side. "That was here. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to see this."

"Why won't you tell me anything?" Bellamy snarls.

"Because you don't want to know," Clarke snaps. "It'll hurt you."

"Nothing makes sense," Bellamy says. "Fire... I remember strangling a man. I remember - "

Clarke shakes her head desperately.

"I was looking for you," Bellamy whispers. "When I saw you at the trading post. I was so mad at you, and I don't remember why. But there was a moment where I couldn't believe you were safe and right in front of me."

Clarke slowly sinks to her knees next to him.

"We'll get you home," she promises. "My mom, she'll know what to do. You'll probably get your memories back, and - "

He gently brushes his thumb across her cheek, smearing ash together with the tears she hadn't realized she was crying. She leans in against him and they sit there for a while. He feels warm and solid against her side, but the bones digging into her legs aren't nearly as comfortable. 

“Please, Bellamy,” she sighs. “Just let me take you home.” She’ll go willingly to whatever fate the bounty hunter has planned for her, as long as she knows he’s safe. If he remembers everything and hates her afterwards, it’ll only make things easier. It’s better if she’s not missed.

He takes her hand to help him stand but doesn’t let go when they’re finally steady. Clarke thinks about pulling away but she can almost feel the warmth of his palm seeping through their gloves and suddenly she’s hungrier for human contact than she was for food the nights she spent with an empty stomach before she’d started having any success with hunting. It’s just been so long since she had a friend. 

At first Bellamy muses on other scraps of memory that are coming back to him, trying to untangle reality from daydream. Little things, like cutting a pear into slices with a knife, or Clarke drinking from a hazy glass bottle. Then he notices Clarke’s unease and they awkwardly switch to stories from the Ark, from a past they both remember and yet have no intersection. Clarke starts telling him about the first time she and Wells braved curfew to go drinking, and the disaster that spun out into, and by the time they break the treeline and Camp Jaha is lying below them, he’s laughing too, the freckles on his cheeks stretched into something light and carefree. 

Their smiles fade as they look at the metallic glint of Alpha Station’s broken wheel. Bellamy looks contemplative, Clarke just feels dread. The camp is so much bigger than it was when Clarke left. There are actual buildings now, and it looks like they’ve expanded the fence’s perimeter to include a garden. They’ve made a home without her and the permanent stains on her soul. 

“You should go on,” she says quietly, and Bellamy startles. 

“Without you?” he asks, and it’s so funny to her how the things they fight about have shifted.

Clarke opens her mouth, but before she can respond the soft crunch of snow behind them makes both her and Bellamy turn. The man with long hair emerges from behind a tree, his sword held at his side. Bellamy instantly shifts into a defensive stance, his arm out to the side like he can hide Clarke from sight. She swallows down her fear and squeezes his shoulder. 

“We made a deal, Wanheda.”

“Like hell you did,” Bellamy snarls.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says reluctantly, trying to push him back.

“ _No_ ,” he says through gritted teeth. “I am not letting you sacrifice yourself again.”

“Did Wanheda tell you why she’s a wanted woman?” the bounty hunter asks, stalking closer. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bellamy says. _It does_ , Clarke wants to cry out. _We killed so many people, but only one of us has to take the fall._

“Please, Bellamy, I’ll be fine,” Clarke lies. “Just go home, get that wound checked out and… try not to hate me too much when you remember.”

In the summer, the way the sunlight hit Bellamy’s eyes sometimes would give them a golden glaze. They’re not as bright by winter’s cold light, but they’re still the warmest thing in the forest. Clarke’s gaze still flits between his eyes, trying to commit him to memory, and that’s how she sees the moment he decides. 

“I won’t hate you,” he says. His hand tightens on hers and then he’s pulling her through the forest, along the edge of the treeline instead of down the meadow towards Camp Jaha’s gates. The bounty hunter follows nimbly, his feet more sure on the snow-slick rocks than theirs, and Clarke’s heart pounds from fear more than exertion. He’s closing the distance, and there’s nowhere here for them to run to.

“Let me go,” she pants, “And he won’t hurt you - “

“Trust me,” Bellamy says, and he shoves her to the side of a subtle clearing in the woods. The man with long hair follows, his arm raising his sword high overhead for a brutal downward swing, and then - 

Clarke’s jaw drops in shock as a crack echoes through the clearing and the bounty hunter is swung up into the air, his sword falling from his grip and disappearing into the snow. The bounty hunter dangles from his ankle for just seconds before swinging himself up with a grunt to claw at the noose that’s holding him suspended. Bellamy’s hand tightens on her arm and hauls her up again, pulling her out of the bounty hunter’s sight. She stumbles against him, still reeling. 

“How did you - “

“Vaguely remembered setting up some traps with Miller,” Bellamy says breathlessly. He gives her a brief smirk. “You’re not the only one who picked up some Grounder tricks.”

“Bellamy,” she starts, her heart clenching painfully in her chest. “I have to - “

“I won’t hate you when I remember everything,” he says. “I won’t. Because I knew it before, and I still went looking for you.” Clarke leans her forehead against his shoulder and feels all the fight go out of her. "Can you please answer one question though?" he asks, very serious and very quiet. "Just one?"

 _No_ , she thinks. Then, _maybe._

"Yes."

"Were we... in love?"

Her breath hitches. 

"Maybe," she says. "If we'd had more time."

Bellamy laughs in disbelief and buries his head in his hands.

"Me and Clarke Griffin, the Ark’s princess. It’s hardly the craziest thing to happen to me this week,” he jokes, and Clarke gently punches him in the shoulder. He catches her hand and squeezes it. “Come on, Clarke. Come inside with me.”

Snow starts to fall gently in wet clumps that seem to take forever to hit the ground. The sky is darkening, and Clarke has spent long enough out here to know how the forest wakes up for night and to know her place on the outskirts of it. The urge to flee is still overwhelming, but so is Bellamy’s hand in hers. So are the flickering golden lights of campfires inside Camp Jaha’s borders.

She takes a deep breath.

“I guess I still owe you that drink,” she says, and following him home is easier than she thought it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a line from Newsies, which I have never seen/heard, but @the-poodles-of-pulitzer reblogs a lot of, so I thought it would be kind of a fun nod? I hope it's not too wildly out of context?
> 
> HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE. I hope you're having a good time with people who bring out the best in you. And if you are not, I've been there too, and I promise it won't always be like this. Thanks for reading, lots of love. <3


End file.
